A mouse in the house means lots of fun
I think I mentioned how my take-no-prisoners, strong, modern, successful, best female friend, Darby, turns into a screaming dancing shivering bit of goo whenever a mouse whisks its way across the room, but I didn’t realize her condition was contagious.
Though Darby’s mouse issue has faded somewhat (with the application of several not so mouse-friendly traps) there is still one chunky little critter who likes to make an appearance about 10:30 every night. She said my squeaky Minnie Mouse voice is probably luring it out. That’s a little unkind, right?
Anyway, we’ll be sitting, slurping down a last coffee, discussing matters of great importance (okay, gossiping), puffing on one last smoke (ya, that should tell you how long my quitting lasted - oh well, God hates a quitter, right?) when we’ll hear a sneaky scratchy noise under the microwave stand.
Darby will tense up. Her eyes squint. Her lips twist in a growl.
Darby: It’s that *&%^(*& mouse.
The conversation stops as she stares intently at the stand, just waiting for it to poke out its furry little face and skitter across the floor. Then she does her mouse dance, often on the top of the table while wearing her little nighty and yowling pitifully. (Remember, this is a lady I have seen make big burly guys cower. And did I mention she’s short? Like maybe three and a half, four feet tall. Okay, maybe five on a good day. Though only the very brave or very foolish mention her height. I already know which category I fit into.)
The other night, though, Darby was already in bed. I was snuggled into the easy chair with the massage pad on full, barely awake. A young lady (let’s call her Kat) who recently became part of the household had just finished watching television and was about to store away her lunch meat in plastic baggies, just puttering before heading for bed and lulling away to dreamland.
It was a sweet peaceful domestic scene.
Then the clock struck 10:30.
At the very same moment Kat was standing in front of the stove. She reached up and took out a baggy. She reached down to open the package of thawed meat. The mouse must have had different ideas about where that meat should go, because that’s when it decided to dart right over the top of the stove, running straight at Kat, little bald tail twitching.
Now Kat is a level-headed girl. She can give you that dead-pan teenage look when she thinks you’re just being lame. She’s smart, a real cutey and never seems to get horribly over-excited. In other words she’s not one of those squealy hyper stereotypical teenaged girls.
But she was that night.
First she jumped straight back about four feet, screeching and jumping up and down. Massage forgotten, she had my full attention.
Me: What’s wrong?
Kat: (after a few panicked breaths) Mouse! Mouse! Mouse! Mouse almost touched me!
I closed my eyes and took another look. Nope, I wasn’t looking at Darby. It was definitely Kat.
Me: Just a mouse?
Kat: But it almost touched me!
Then she hip-hopped over to the couch, stood on top of it, and made teenaged girlie noises while jumping up and down and flapping her hands in front of her.
By then I was laughing. A lot.
You know, no offence but I hope they never catch that mouse. It has serious entertainment value.